Winged Deer Tongue on a Sunless Tuesday
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Deer tongue leaves
The local council mowed the grass along
The edge where buses come and go.
My scooter drives me past and something wrong
Swells up in pale spring air, not quite like snow
In August by the Indian River, yet
Not right, somehow. It floats, vanillin smell,
The fragrance of dried deer tongue leaves when set
To soak up summer sun. So from the well
Of memory Florida and childhood fill
This English town in March, this Tuesday town
That’s never known a saint-like second till
This moment, streets that wear a modern frown.
The groves of orange tree blossoms and lagoon
Beyond emerge from Bracknell’s gray cocoon.
~ Phillip Whidden